


the world spins madly on.

by technophileTriquetra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aromantic Asexual John, Asexual Character, Canon Gay Character, Childhood, Developing Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Everything is eventual, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Dirk Strider, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sadstuck, The Author Regrets Everything, it's just sad, long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technophileTriquetra/pseuds/technophileTriquetra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Indefinite Hiatus]</p><p>You have no business raising a child. You have ABSOLUTELY no business raising two. Your life has been a cesspool of death, disappointment, and children you don't know what to do with.</p><p>--------</p><p>When Jane Crocker dies, she leaves guardianship of her nephew to an old friend who hasn't had contact with her since high school. Dirk has been bringing up his younger brother for the first five years of his life, and is suddenly trusted with another child he's never even met. With help from his best friend Roxy, he learns how to overcome the hardships that come along with being a guardian to two young boys. And he thinks he has all the bases covered, until another old friend rolls into town and interrupts his life in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy, my darlings. And please, don't forget to comment! I'd love to hear your thoughts on how the story is progressing.
> 
> [This fic has been temporarily put on hiatus. ]

“I’m sorry. _What_?”

You never thought you’d be sitting here in front of some spiffed-up law man in a fancy suit, sitting behind his desk like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s better than you just because he has a degree and all you had was a pair of douchey shades and a concealed weapon in the back of your truck.

“I’m… very surprised you weren’t made aware of this beforehand, Mr. Strider,” he tells you, eyes wandering from your own to the papers and files he has beneath his hands. You almost tell him that you ain’t old enough to be called Mr. Strider, but Roxy’s words ring in your ear.

_No matter how hard you wanna punch ‘em, just put a pretty smile on ya face and nod like you don’t give a shit._

“See, the thing is,” you begin after clearing your throat. The man watches you with a narrowed gaze. You return the expression. When you lean forward in your chair you find it amusing that he almost inches back. Good. He should be afraid of you. Or, maybe not… given the unfortunate circumstances in which you find yourself here. “Jane and I haven’t spoken since high school. I didn’t even know she--”

And, you pause.

Poor Janey.

Tears you apart to know you didn’t get a chance to talk to her at least one more time before her death. Roxy took it harder, of course. The pair were nearly inseparable when they were younger. When you’d gotten the call from the social worker who was tasked with Jane’s nephew’s case, you phoned Roxy immediately and had to drive over to console her. There was crying and you’re ashamed to admit that none of it came from your end.

“Yes, well,” the social worker pauses and shuffles his papers again. Maybe doing that, keeping his hands busy, makes him feel like he’s more important than he is. You scold yourself internally for thinking shit like that. You think shit like that, and this kid could slip through your fingers. Even if you don’t got any right raisin’ one kid. Let alone, two.

“In his file it states that Jane Crocker was granted sole legal and physical custody of John Egbert after his father’s disappearance when he was four months old. Given that information, upon her death she wished for you to take over guardianship of him,” he states mildly. You try to sneak a look at whatever he’s got in his hand, but your damn shades obscure your line of sight, and he catches you fast enough out of the corner of his eye to shift just a few inches. Goddamnit.

“You’re askin’ me to take in a kid that I’ve never even met before,” you begin slowly. “That’s the nephew of a girl I haven’t spoken to since we were sixteen. Am I hearing you correctly?”

“Mr. Strider, you don’t seem to understand that I don’t hold the reins on who Ms. Crocker decided to sign John over to.” He looks really annoyed with you. Had you been locked in any other situation, that would made you real damn smug with yourself. Now isn’t the time for smugness or self-satisfaction.

“There is one clause I neglected to mention, however.”

Should you be scared? You feel like maybe you should be scared. Of course, swallowing down your anxiety like the bitter pill it is has become one of your most discernible talents over the years, and your face maintains a somewhat confused but otherwise emotionless expression.

“In the event that one Mr. Derrick Abigail--” He has to pause and re-read over your name. You have to stifle laughter at that. The man clears his throat and glances up at you overtop his glasses before continuing. “--Strider chooses not to assume guardianship over Johnathan Egbert, all forms and legal documents will be handed over to a Ms. Roxanne Lalonde.”

Warmth spreads through you and your lips tug into a knowing smile. Even after all this time, Jane still considered the two of you her closest friends. Your heart breaks a little. The man continues to stare at you as if you’re expected to answer a question he didn’t even ask.

“Roxy was one of our friends, too,” you tell him.

“And I assume you’d like to turn over custody of John to her?”

The word ‘yes’ lingers on your tongue. That is, until you actually use your brain to think about the situation that’s been thrust upon you all in one go. There are still hoops you’d need to jump through. Papers to sign, court meetings. You didn’t think you’d have to go through all of this again, and for a kid that ain’t even yours to begin with.

And then you think of Roxy.

Roxy, who gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl when she was only twenty. Roxy, who you could call at three in the morning when you didn’t know how to get Dave to stop crying, back before Dave could properly vocalize what was wrong with him. She’s your best friend. Your partner in crime. And handing off a kid to her when you know she has her hands full already is purely selfish. Granted, so do you, but a woman of her caliber doesn’t need the added stress.

You’re just a web designer that sells puppets for a quick buck.

“Mr. Strider, unfortunately there isn’t much time to think about this. The boy needs a home, and with two potential legal guardians named, the courts will not send him into foster care until--”

“Where do I sign.”

 

Your life is a cesspool of disappointment, death, and kids you have absolutely no right raising. You don’t know how to take care of a kid. You learned that when you first gained custody of your little brother.

You’re not looking forward to the inevitable question when he gets older.

“What happened to mom and dad?”

How are you supposed to tell your kid brother that your dad was an alcoholic who abused prescription drugs and your mom was just on for the ride? For the past five years, you’ve been searching for a way to properly word the answer without facing resentment from him.

When mama Strider had considered having another child, you were already twenty-two. Flown the coop to start a life on your own.

You thought, anyway.

You came to visit the family once a week. Dad would be drunk or high or away, mom would be frazzled and coddle you until you felt like you were suffocating on the cigarette smoke and the cheap laundry detergent that clung to her clothes. It’s funny, in a way. You smell like that most of the time, now. You asked questions when mom started showing, and she blatantly lied to your face about it. ‘No, I’m just getting fat’, or ‘you’re imagining things, Dirky’. You knew, though. You knew the two least functional people in the world were planning on raising another kid and you weren’t gonna be around to teach him right from wrong, because you know they never would. Never did with you. Shit, when you were growing up, all you had was the hot Texas sun and the seagulls.

You helped out on a ranch when Davey was born. Shovelling shit when you got the call. ‘ _Derrick, you have a baby brother! His name is David! You should come visit, sweetie. We all miss you_.’ Bull. You knew better. They didn't miss you at all.

And even you know you shouldn't say that. You're the reason they're dead.

You learned your bad habits from your dad. Alcoholism is something that seems to run in the family. Only twenty-two and already stumbling drunk on a bi-weekly basis. Sometimes more. And on a weekend you had planned to come and visit, told them you wanted to spend time with Davey, you never showed up. Too much booze in your system to even think straight.

You were completely hung over when you got a telephone call the next morning. The authorities had been trying to reach you all night, but you never heard your phone ring. They told you that they’d like for you to come to the hospital. They have bad news.

So, naturally, you did. You went, and then you wondered why an officer was taking you downstairs instead of up to one of the recovery news. You wondered why you were being asked to identify the two corpses of your parents.

Dave had been with a babysitter, thank god. She told you they had left him with her-- because they were looking for you. They were worried when you didn’t show up.

You haven’t touched alcohol since that night.

You even helped Roxy kick her habit, somewhere down the road.

It took months of paperwork and court dates and begging and shouting to get Dave back. He’s your kid now. He’s always been your kid. How could he not be? You raised him nearly since birth and you swear, you’re never going to have children but Dave is as good as. So is Rose, of course. Still.

You know you’re in for another wild ride when it comes to John. A part of you is entirely shell-shocked about the random happenstance. An accident in one of Crocker Corps. factories. An explosion that lead to dozens of deaths, including Jane. You wish you could have told her sorry for all those years ago, but now you can’t. You realize, now, thinking about it, taking care of John is your apology. Raising her nephew the way you know she would have wanted is how you can make it up to her for way back when.

You plan on doin’ a damn good job at it, too.

 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m Dirk. But you don’t have to call me that if you don’t want to,” you tell him.
> 
> “That’s your name. What am I ‘sposed to call you?”
> 
> “Well. You can call me Bro.”
> 
> “Why?”
> 
> “Because,” you say slowly, shrugging your shoulders. “Because I’ll be like your brother. Bro is short for brother.”
> 
> “You’re my brother?”
> 
> Shit. Shit.
> 
> “...Sure. Yeah, I’m your brother.”

The first thing you notice about this place is the smell: clorox wipes meets Oscar the Grouch. It has that sort of lingering odor you get when you try to spritz up a loaded garbage can with a little bit of air freshener. So it just ends up smelling like dead fish AND lavender. You think it goes along with the rest of the decor. A puke green carpet to hide unidentifiable stains. Off-white walls, the kind you get a massive headache from if you stare at it too long. Not that you should be staring at walls that long anyway. You’ve been sitting in this waiting area long enough to have begun the process, though.

While your ass has made a nice indent in the cushioned seat, you notice the desk-lady (You think her name is Kanaya, but you didn’t get a good look at her designated name placard on the desk. Your shades are obscuring your vision too much to make it out from where you sit) has one of those less-than-comfortable ergonomic chairs. No amount of adjusting would get them to the right height, you know that much. Her desk is mahogany. You’re pretty sure the wall behind her is mahogany. You don’t know your woods, so you’re left to assume it’s all expensive mahogany. The wall behind her isn’t just mahogany, though. No, they have windows conveniently placed so you can see all the little cubicles and doors over in the next room.  You’ve craned your neck trying to get a glimpse of John so much that you’re pretty sure you’ve sprained it. Dave wasn’t too excited when you told him what was going down. He’s told you that he’ll be okay with it (‘kinda’, with an added little shrug of indifference) when you told him it’ll be like living with a permanent best friend. You’re sure he’ll see John as a friend more than a brother, anyway.

Desk lady looks up periodically at you. And then the clock. Then back down to her computer, or her book, or the envelopes and papers she has neatly stacked off to the side. Whatever her mind fancies to occupy itself with at the moment. You avoid looking at the clock that hangs off to the left of you. The ticking makes you anxious. You stick to glancing down at five minute intervals to your cell phone. Five missed calls. Two new text messages. A dozen unread emails. You itch to return the calls and texts and see if any of those emails are at all important. But that’d be rude, wouldn’t it? You’re pretty sure you see desk-lady-slash-possibly-Kanaya shoot a glare your way every time you even bother picking up your phone to check the time. So far, it’s been two hours. You’ve been here for two whole hours and you have yet to hear anything or do anything remotely important aside from make your ass a permanent home on these wholly uncomfortable wooden chairs.

Okay, that’s only partly true. For the first hour you were sitting in a different and yet somehow also uncomfortable chair behind the wall in the cubicled area, hunched over what you can only assume was a TV dinner table, filling out paperwork. The same paperwork you’re pretty sure you filled out last week in this same place. It’s all the same information given to you over and over again, and the same information you jot down. It’s going to be burned into your memory by the time you leave this place.

Goddamn it, that ticking has been eating away at your brain for so damn long that you’re tapping your finger against your thigh in time with it. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Shit. Are you breaking out in a sweat? Probably. Clearing your throat, you discreetly wipe your forehead against the back of your wrist. There is definitely sweat coming from  you. As you begin to slowly feel yourself taking a nose dive into an anxiety attack, a heavily tattooed woman in a dress opens the door beside the desk. She’s tall. Very tall. The look she gives you holds slight concern and yet exerts power and hot damn this lady does not seem like someone you want to mess with. She gives you a sweet enough smile in greeting, though. When she approaches you, you stand out of pure instinct, reaching out to meet the hand that she offers you.

“I take it that you’re Mr. Stri--”

“Dirk. Call me Dirk. Please. I’ve heard enough ‘Mr. Strider’s in the past few weeks that I’m startin’ to think I look older than I do.”

You get a smile out of her, which is definitely more than you could have asked for. Her grip on your hand almost feels like it could crush bone if she applied just a little bit more pressure. One of those authoritative handshakes you’ve been getting too much of recently. ‘I am the boss. You are not. I say jump, you say how high.’ That sorta thing. Actually, now that you’re thinking about it, that’s basically what’s been going on through the legal process of assuming guardianship over this kid. The trouble you go through for friends. Even the dead ones.

You just made yourself sad. Good job.

“My name is Porrim Maryam. It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says after finally letting your hand go. You idly rub at your wrist where the pads of her fingers had brushed along. Her voice is low and melodic. You now are able to vividly picture her singing lullabies to orphans, cooing motherly at children left without homes. She seems like the type. You give her the customary ‘it’s nice to meet you too’ (more words you’ve been saying too much of recently) spiel. She knows you’re lying, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

“If you don’t mind following me back into my office, I have a few questions I’d like to ask you before we move along in the process.”

If you don’t mind? What if you did mind? Would this whole thing be called off? ‘Oh, looks like Mr. Strider totally minds stepping into Ms. Maryam’s office! Guess we’re gonna have to ship this kid straight off to the next in line. Pass him around like the world’s hottest potato.’ That’d be awful. The thought helps you propel yourself forward, feet moving automatically a few paces behind her. Naturally, you get a few stares. A lanky young man who hasn’t yet filled himself out with anything more than lean muscle, hands shoved into his pockets, sulking around with pointy anime shades on. You’re bound to get those judgemental looks.

The carpet surrounding the cubicles is still a puke green, but the walls are a nice change. A light blue that doesn’t really go with the rug, but hey. It’s much better than that nauseating white you had to stare at for two hours.

Porrim leads you back, way behind the cubicles, and past a room that honest to God looks like it’s meant to be the human form of a zoo. Only instead of animals, it’s fit for children. Yellow walls, yellow floor. City carpets and toy cars. Dolls. Doll houses. Plastic tables and chairs. All of it situated behind one-way plexiglass, where you can observe anyone inside it without them knowing. You shudder.

And you nearly trip over your own damn feet when you catch sight of a dark haired boy seated on the floor, talking to himself-- or the rabbit he’s holding so lovingly in his hands.

That’s John.

It has to be.

He keeps rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, more out of irritation than sleepiness it would seem, and it’s only when Porrim speaks again do you manage to make your brain and your feet work. Tearing your eyes from John, you move into her office.

She sits behind her desk, a closed laptop pushed off to the side for later use. You take a seat in one of the two chairs available. These are different from the wooden and lightly cushioned ones you find in the waiting rooms. Jade green, soft, actually something you can see yourself getting comfortable in, if you weren’t so high strung already.

At this point, if Porrim couldn’t actually read minds, she’s doing a great job at reading you. You, who is very capable of keeping his cool on the outside even if shit is fucked up six ways from Sunday on the inside. She gives you a knowing grin. You do not like that look. That’s the look that says ‘I hope you like the chair. You’re going to be here for a while.’

“Mr.-- Dirk,” she corrects herself kindly before you have a chance to. The corner of your lip twitches. “It says in your file that your source of income is… ‘Other’. Do you mind describing what kind of work you do?”

Her question doesn’t surprise you at all. They clearly already know you’re taking care of one child at home, and they need to make sure you can afford to take care of another one. You’re actually not quite sure of this yourself, a thought that worries you, but you push that off to the side to think about your answer. How do you put this nicely?

“I work almost entirely from home,” you say, shrugging. “Most of it comes from building websites for people. Helping them generate more views, make it look like they ain’t stuck in the early 90’s. No one is gonna take ya seriously if it looks like your company just crawled out of the deepest, darkest pits of Geocities.”

This time, you pull a professional chuckle from her. Hopefully your sense of humor is earning you points on this whole ‘winning the kid’ situation. She scribbles some notes on a fresh sheet of yellow paper in bright red pen. Her gaze returns to you. Your skin warms under it.

“Is that all?”

“Well,” you begin. Ain’t no way you can derail it now. You sheepishly rub the back of your neck. With a sigh, you just dive right into it. No tiptoeing, no bullshitting. “I hand-sew puppets and sell them on my own website. It’s… kinda an unusual niche that I’ve made myself a home in. It brings in a good amount a’ money though.”

She pauses. Seems to chew on your answer for a little bit before giving you a quick nod and a nice smile that’s definitely mandatory for everyone that works here. More scribbling of notes. More digging your fingernails into the arm of the chair, scritching at them to relieve some of the tenseness in your head.

“And…” She squints her eyes as she scans over your file again. What even is in your file? Is it all of the paperwork you’ve filled out? Detailed browsing history over the past five years? Your non-existant criminal record? You may never know.

“What do you do for insurance?”

“I’m covered by the state. Dave’s in my name. An’ John’ll be, too, as soon as we get the hell outta Dodge.”

Whoops. Are you supposed to say ‘hell’ in places like these? Porrim doesn’t seem to mind all that much, though her expression drops from motherly cheerfulness to stern and disciplinary but still very sweet. She makes another note, and it’s silent for a full three minutes before either of you speak again.

“Dirk, before we get that one last vital signature of yours, we’d like to do an evaluation between you and John. And the other child in your care. David.”

She keeps saying ‘we’, which you find kind of funny. We. The system as a whole. We are watching you, Dirk Strider. We have eyes everywhere.

“I don’t gotta problem with it, but Davey really don’t like places like this. They scare ‘m.” Naturally. He wasn’t nearly old enough to remember all of the trouble he was put through when you had gone through this same grueling process for him, but he knows what happened, for the most part. You would have brought him in today, had he not been vehemently against it.

“...Dirk, the only way we can legally release John to you is if we see how he interacts with every member of the household,” she explains. Her voice has an edge in it that you’re starting not to like. It makes your nose twitch.

“Yeah, I get that. Believe me, I do. I want the kid to be safe ‘n all. Is it at all possible for y’all to do a home evaluation? If I remember correctly, that was an option a few years back,” you tell her. You’re pretty much pleading at this point, though it’s a fault you won’t admit to yourself. You’re definitely way above begging.

She sighs, rubbing at her temples with those meticulously manicured nails of hers. Could easily take out someone’s eyeball if she was so inclined to do so. This last act of desperation almost seems to have failed when she nods her head in reluctant agreement.

“We’ll have to evaluate you with him first--” To which you enthusiastically nod. “-- but I suppose we can schedule a home evaluation for next week.”

She moves to open her laptop, and you take her distraction as an open invitation to pull out your own phone.  Thankfully it’s hidden from her view for now. Swiping it open with your thumb reveals a list of missed calls, all from the same familiar number. Your heart drops when you see the name under the caller ID.

Dave’s been over at Roxy’s for the day. When you need a babysitter, she’s your gal. And vice-versa. You’ll take care of Rose in a heartbeat, even if she does insist on calling you Derrick. If Roxy called you five times in a row, there has to be something wrong. She wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.

The two texts are from her, as well. Swallowing thickly, you open them.

_TG: if u dont bring lil crocker 2 see me asap i will fuck ur website u p_

_TG: <3 u_

There is a reason you love Roxy Lalonde, and this is it.

Though you have absolutely no idea why in the world she would call you five times just for that aside from excitement, you’re glad to see she’s on board with this whole thing. You’re sure she’s trying to ease Dave into it, too.

“Ahem.”

You’ve been made. Amber eyes glance up from the glow of your phone screen to stare up at the source of the noise. Porrim is staring you down with one eyebrow raised. Holding her stare, you ever so slowly inch it back into your pocket and counter her look with one of your own. You’re not sure what it does, but whatever it is, it works. She moves back to focus on her computer.

“I can have someone drop by next Tuesday around 1:30pm, if that’s ideal?” she asks you. Next Tuesday. 1:30. You commit that to memory before offering her a curt nod. Her nails clack on the keyboard in a way that’s pleasing to your ears. You think it might be because it reminds you of home, in a way. It sends a warm feeling down your spine. She’s scheduling your at-home evaluation, no doubt. Informing what has got to be the fourteenth social worker you will have had contact with over the course of only a few weeks that they’re needed to babysit you and your kids.

Porrim stands-- you follow after her.

“Are you ready?”

Ready?

“Ready for…?”

“To meet John.”

Oh.

For a minute you’re actually pretty sure your brain has stopped working. You’re going to meet John. You’re beginning to understand the crude mix of anxiety and excitement that comes with adopting a child. This isn’t technically adopting him if you were trusted with his guardianship, right? You’re not sure. Only once you’re able to completely process Porrim’s words do you nod at her again. You don’t have a choice, do you? It’s another one of those rhetorical questions that only have a single correct answer.

Again you’re stuck trailing after Porrim. You were correct in assuming that the plexiglass child-zoo was the evaluation room. You were also correct in assuming that the little raven-haired boy was, in fact, John Egbert. He looks up from the book he’s picked up since the last time you saw him when Porrim opens the door. His blue eyes are huge, you notice as he stares at the two of you. Porrim’s gaze softens towards him, and she stoops down to meet him. You’re not entirely sure if you’re supposed to do the same. You tend to just loom over Dave at home, no questions asked.

“John,” Porrim coos gently. “This is Dirk Strider. Your Aunt Jane was very good friends with him when they were younger.”

He hasn’t moved his gaze away from you. Never has a five year old made you feel so ridiculously uneasy with his ever so slightly narrowed eyes. You offer a little wave. He cracks a smile, those goofy half-grins children usually give when they’re first learning how to properly utilize their face muscles to their will, and waves back.

“John, your aunt told Dirk that he’s going to take care of you now that she can’t. How does that sound? Does that sound okay?”

John nods. Kid doesn’t seem too shook up, but you don’t think  he properly understands what happened. He will soon, you’re sure. You taught Dave about death and dying and ‘the circle of life’, conveniently after being nagged into watching The Lion King with him and Rose. Rose, of course, figured it out on her own. She’s a smart little munchkin.

“I’m going to leave you to play with Dirk. Be nice to him, John. And Dirk, be nice to John.” Porrim stands up to address you, a friendly pat on the back as she leaves from the room. She’s going to be watching and listening from the other side of the window. John doesn’t know this, but you do, and that just puts added pressure on your shoulders.

John’s attention is focused back on his book. Does he know how to read yet, you wonder? You know Rose does, and Dave is catching up fast. You shouldn’t compare him to them, though. You’re well aware of that. With a sigh, you crouch down before letting your ass hit the floor. The carpet is thin and uncomfortable, like it isn’t even there to cushion your posterior against the tile beneath it.

“Hey, kiddo,” you offer him. He scrunches up his face and looks at you like you just asked him the square root of 413.

“My name is John.” The way he over-pronounces the ‘o’ in his name makes it sound like ‘Jawn’. Right, okay. Too early to start with the nicknames. You nod your head in agreement. Yes. Your name is John. How foolish of me.

“I’m Dirk. But you don’t have to call me that if you don’t want to,” you tell him.

“That’s your name. What am I ‘sposed to call you?”

“Well. You can call me Bro.”

Dave has not once in his life ever called you Dirk, let alone Derrick. When you were first teaching him how to speak, you figured ‘Bro’ would be a much easier word to learn. It wasn’t his first word. Not technically. His first word was ‘Bo’. Before he could pronounce the ‘r’ in the nickname you had given yourself. Ever since then, you’ve been Bro to him. John doesn’t quite grasp the concept.

“Why?”

“Because,” you say slowly, shrugging your shoulders. “Because I’ll be like your brother. Bro is short for brother.”

“You’re my brother?”

Shit. Shit.

“...Sure. Yeah, I’m your brother.”

Again with that little smile he gives you. And then he laughs, and so do you. The tension that had previously occupied the too-yellow room was slowly starting to dissipate with every  word you say to each other.

“And you have another brother too--” John visibly perks up at this. “His name is Dave. When you come home-- to my home, but it’s your home now too-- he’s going to be there waiting for you.”

“I didn’t know I had TWO brothers,” John mutters to himself. You’re just about to say something when he makes a surprised ‘ooh!’ sound, standing up and running straight back to that raggedy bunny that you’d seen him with earlier. You’re not sure if it belongs to the facility or if it’s one of his few belongings from Jane’s place. He’s standing in front of you now, and he hands the rabbit to you. You take it. You can’t just refuse a gift from a child.

“...Thanks, Johnny.”

He pouts at that.

“John.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Do you like knock-knock jokes?”

Alrighty then. Kid knows how to segue the fuck outta conversations, but you’re cool with it. You can definitely roll with this. You’ve gotten good at rolling with things. You nod your head, but tell him that you don't know any, even though that’s sort of a lie. You know a few knock knock jokes. Admittedly, they’re really not any funny. They’re more… anti-Jokes. You’re not sure John would appreciate the humor.

“Do you have one?” you ask him. He nods enthusiastically, sitting back down in front of you with his legs crossed. His shoes are bright fucking yellow. It’s almost blinding. Who let this kid wear banana shoes.

“I have SO many!”

“Lay it on me, squirt.”

 

* * *

 

You spend a good hour in there with John. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, and you’re pretty sure you’ve never grinned this much in your entire life. John is full of bad jokes and clever stories pulled off the top of his tiny little head. You know he likes ghosts, and really likes to read about scary shit like that. His favorite color is ‘blue but also with a little bit of green’. When you asked him if he knew how to use the toilet, he looked at you and said in the most serious voice, ‘I’m five. I’m not stupid.’, which sent you into a fit of snorty laughter, leading to him demanding to know what was so funny.

You already love him. And you know Dave will, too.

He’s called you Bro three times by the time Porrim walks back in. With her, a duffel bag full of John’s clothes. It occurs to you that this poor kid probably had to leave all of his toys behind. You make a note to get the guy something he likes. Although, it’ll be really hard finding ghost stories that are appropriate for a five year old.

Porrim brings with her a clipboard, more documents, and a pen decorated in little cats. A nice touch, you think to yourself as you take it from her. Your eyes skim over the paper in front of you. This is it. These are the last ones you have to sign to be given full custody of John Egbert. You hesitate, but not because you want to reconsider. This is a difficult moment for you to process. You sort of feel sick. Porrim places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, which, for some odd reason, helps comfort you. You breathe, because sometimes you forget to do that. In. Out. Rinse and repeat tenfold.

You scribble _Derrick A. Strider_ in your barely-legible 1st-grade-cursive along the line indicated with a blue little cross before passing it all back to Porrim. She’s beaming. It’s contagious. John’s been messing through his bag, way too preoccupied looking for something to pay any attention to either of you. He pulls out a hood-- just a hood. A hood that looks like a goddamned windsock. For a moment you’re… absolutely baffled as to why he would even have something like that. You don’t question after you see his face when he slips it on.

“Security blanket,” is all Porrim has to mutter to you for you to understand completely. You’d thought it was the bunny, but your first assumption had been correct. It was the facility’s, not Johns. You tell him that it’s time to go home, and watching him leave that bunny is the most heartbreaking thing ever. He tells it to be good, and be safe, and ‘take care of the other kids, okay?’.

You heave his bag onto your shoulder, and he takes your hand as Porrim leads the two of you towards the exit. She gives him a hug, which he returns. You think he might be crying a little bit, but you’re not an ass enough to mention it.

“If you have any problems or need any help, you know where you can find us,” she whispers in your ear as she hugs you too. You have a touch problem. The hug isn’t unwelcomed. It’s just. Hard to tolerate. You manage to give her an extremely awkward sideways hug back and thank her for what she’s done before grabbing John’s hand again.

“Hey, Bro?” he peeps up as the two of you begin down the stairs towards your truck. Dave’s booster seat should fit him comfortably, you figure. The one you bought John is still tucked away at Roxy’s house for safe keeping. You glance down at him, raising an eyebrow above your shades.

“What’s up, Johnny?”

“Why are your sunglasses so pointy?”

Your name is Derrick Strider. Everyone calls you Dirk. Only your two favorite brats in the world call you Bro. You are a single man raising two young boys. And you have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly unbeta'd? Huff. Things will be changed here and there once my beta does happen to get online. I was just very excited to publish this one.


End file.
